


L'éternité

by tiny_gangster



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: A little smut at the end but barely, Canon Era, M/M, Mostly Fluff, i don't know what this is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-17
Updated: 2018-03-17
Packaged: 2019-04-01 11:00:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13996860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiny_gangster/pseuds/tiny_gangster
Summary: Marius had delicate hands. The bones were fine as that of a bird’s, spindly and delicate and made to fly. They rushed across paper as if each word might escape him before he could take it down. Courfeyrac would be content to sit in silence, and watch him do this, and only this, for hours.





	L'éternité

Marius had delicate hands. The bones were fine as that of a bird’s, spindly and delicate and made to fly. They rushed across paper as if each word might escape him before he could take it down. Courfeyrac would be content to sit in silence, and watch him do this, and only this, for hours.

 

He missed those eyes. Longed for him to look up, just the once. He wanted Marius to look up and find him there and smile. He hadn’t yet today, which wasn’t at all unusual. Though Courfeyrac had done everything in his power to encourage it.

 

Marius was translating Ludwig Börne, one of the _Das Junge Deutschland_ as he’d explained, softly (so softly) to Courfeyrac. In fact, the way he spoke German made it sound unlike German at all, it wasn’t necessarily because he lacked the proper inflection, but the confidence. Courfeyrac had learned that there were two Marius’s haphazardly combined: the first, lively and fierce and impatient. The second: quiet, prone to creased brows, trembling hands, and overdrawn spats of introspection. He was the second today, sitting at his desk, freckled nose wrinkling as he laboured over work he’d be paid a pittance for. But it was good work, he said. He insisted on thanking Courfeyrac for helping him into it whenever he had the chance.

 

He could leave it for later, but Courfeyrac knew why he didn’t. It wasn’t yet dark, and if they left now he’d be embarrassed for anyone to notice his coat wasn’t quite black. He had offered to let him have loan of one of Courfeyrac’s own, but he politely declined. (This was a trait of the first Marius; obstinance.) And so Courfeyrac waited, wandering the length of the shoebox office Marius occupied to flick through novellas and dusty volumes and scribble. He liked his handwriting, the way it seemed to run off the page when he became excited only to fall into order again on the very next line. That familiar, cramped cursive that made Courfeyrac breathe _Marius_ whenever he saw it. And that was often enough since Marius liked to leave notes for him. He was very different in writing, almost painful in his brevity, not like Marius at all. Who, under the right persuasion, could talk for hours uninterrupted. He was disarmingly clever, even if his politics almost induced apoplexy in Courfeyrac whenever they talked about it. He was improving on a spoon-fed diet of Robespierre and Desmoulins.

 

“I think I’m quite done.” Marius said, his voice quiet so to be unobtrusive. Courfeyrac wondered who had taught him that. He wished they hadn’t. There was such a warmth to his voice when he allowed himself to speak freely, such a honey-timbre.

 

“Are you? Marvellous. Then we’ll go.” Courfeyrac replied enthusiastically, straightening the lapels on his coat, the angle of his cravat. He used the grimy window to ensure everything was in order, and then turned his attention to Marius. Who was watching him. He tended to when Courfeyrac wasn’t looking, or when he thought he wasn’t. His eyes would fix on his hands and follow them, only to drift away when he was caught with such nonchalance, too shy to even be embarrassed.

 

“I was hoping you might look over it before then. I’m not entirely certain about this part…” Marius had ink stains on his fingers, they walked all over him when his hand raised, skittering nervously from neck to ear, to jaw. Courfeyrac smiled. He had half a mind not to tell him. Let them stay there. Let everyone see thoughtful, clever Marius with ink on his fingers, on his neck. Let them know.

 

Courfeyrac weaved through the precarious maze of books piled on all sides to perch on the edge of his desk, reaching out with a hand to gently touch one of the dark smears left across the other’s jaw. Marius seemed to freeze, becoming stiff as marble under his touch. Only his eyes moved, and they didn’t come toward but away from him. Courfeyrac tutted lightly. He reached into his pocket for a handkerchief and brought it to gently wipe the smudge away. “We simply cannot have you going out like this, now, can we?” He said. He felt the barely perceptible shake of Marius’ head in his grip.

 

He looked startled, eyes wide, mouth agape as he tried and failed to conjure a reply. It only warmed Courfeyrac to him all the more. “No.” He said, though he could have just as easily said nothing.

 

The law student drew back to observe his workmanship, only to laugh. “I dare say that made it worse.” He admitted.

 

And Marius, dear Marius with his full bottom lip and define cupids bow, smiled with teeth, clapping his hand over the place Courfeyrac’s handkerchief had been. Only to realise it was the offending hand, still dappled with ink. “Oh.” He drew it back, but the damage had already been done. He turned his head to use the window himself and laughter erupted from him. The sound filled the air like music. Courfeyrac fell silent just to hear it.

 

“Perhaps you ought to come home with me. We’ll clean you up properly and go from there.” Courfeyrac’s mouth said, but his eyes said something else. _Refuse me, Marius, or I may try to keep you there. We may never leave._

 

If Marius read any of this, which he seemed to, he didn’t betray his knowledge. His discerning gaze flitted away again, and he nodded. “I think that would be best.”

 

The two departed soon after. Collecting coats, Marius never meeting his eye until they reached the street where an extraordinary thing happened. He looked back once, just the once, over his shoulder, and flashed Courfeyrac another of those rare, wide smiles. So brief, and given up so sparingly. Courfeyrac, who like with everything else was easy with his smiles, returned it in full.

 

He allowed Marius to lead him there, and saw him look back again, find Courfeyrac’s eyes as if to say _I know the way, I remember._ It was almost playful, but he was hesitant to call it that in case it slipped through his fingers. It wasn’t as if Marius were ever insincere. Nothing about him was constructed. It was simply waiting to be read, to be discerned. He was shrouded. Hidden behind a curtain to be revealed. Courfeyrac wanted to unravel him, he wanted to prove that there was no need for the curtain at all. No need for shame.

 

Marius had stopped looking back, which meant he knew Courfeyrac was following by the sound of his steps. There was something undeniably intimate about that small fact that almost brought Courfeyrac to his knees, but he remained upright. He drowned the desire to speak. Nothing he could say would be worthwhile. When they reached the courtyard Marius paused, waiting patiently as Courfeyrac produced his key and led him up.

 

It was not unlike how he had left it. In a mild state of disorder. Bed, not unmade but neither properly attended to. Books strewn across the table, letters in a small pile by the door. A stray cravat here and there. The wardrobe door open. Marius straightened the textbooks at the table, smiling faintly as he outlined the embossed library marking on the spine.

 

“I miss it.” He said, looking up at Courfeyrac. “I don’t miss being told what to do, or the expenses, or the professors… but I do miss it. Isn’t that strange.” He drew back to himself, as if realising he was being rude by inviting himself to touch these things. Courfeyrac didn’t care, wanted to invite him _please Marius, carry on. Touch everything in this room if you’d like, leave your impression everywhere so that I may find it later, and remember you standing there._

 

Instead, he went to retrieve the water jug and wet a cloth, returning to Marius with it raised. Who made a soft sound, an ‘ah’ as he remembered himself why they were there. And he gave a gentle nod.

 

Rather than hand Marius the cloth and the basin, he set it on the table. “Here.” He reached for Marius’ coat, removing it from his shoulders, draping it over the back of a chair. And then his cravat, which was poorly tied at the best of times. And then as if they were nothing, he brushed the buttons of his shirt aside until the stiff collar, already looking sad, wilted away from his throat. All of this Marius allowed, though his fingers had curled at his sides into the overlong cuffs of his sleeves. It was painfully obvious this shirt had belonged to Courfeyrac when he removed his coat.

 

Courfeyrac tried not to let his eyes wander. There were freckles on Marius’ chest, how had he gotten them? Was his skin so fine that even the briefest kiss from the sun left a mark behind? He swallowed, raising the cloth now, turning Marius’ head with his finger tips beneath his chin. He began to work at the ink. The water that beaded down the column of his throat was grey and Courfeyrac paused to catch it with his thumb at the juncture between Marius’ collarbones. He was scarcely moving, scarcely breathing.

 

When Courfeyrac raised his gaze he realised there were tears in those wide eyes. He was petrified. And Courfeyrac himself froze. “Marius.” He said. He had been careless. This was unnecessary, and he knew it. But he had so wanted to touch him, any part of him that Marius would allow.

 

“I’m sorry.” Marius’ voice wavered, faintly husky from being worked around the closure of his throat.

 

“No, no you hardly owe me an apology. Here I- here.” He extended the cloth. Marius wouldn’t take it, head shaking.

 

“It’s improper.” Explained Marius, his fists shaking at his sides. He wasn’t talking about the cloth, about taking it back. Courfeyrac knew that, and yet, he chose not to acknowledge his true meaning, expression insincerely uncertain.

 

“Well I don’t know how-“ Courfeyrac wasn’t able to finish. Marius raised a hand to press Courfeyrac’s own back to him, and though he didn’t meet his eye again, he turned his head, yielding the column of his throat.

 

Courfeyrac was breathless. He let the ink-stained material fall to the floor. He extended his hand, touching the skin now without pretence. He heard Marius inhale, but he didn’t turn his head to gauge his expression for fear of what he might see. Would it crush him if Marius rebuked him? Yes, yes his heart would break. Already, his heart felt so near collapse, knowing that all of this may be a grave mistake. That it might cost him Marius altogether. But how much longer could they go on like this? Not knowing at any time who was the cat, and who was the mouse.

 

“Tell me to withdraw, and I will without a moment’s hesitation.” Courfeyrac said, stepping closer, fingers again on the buttons of Marius’ shirt. “Refuse me, Marius, and I swear, I will never lay a hand on you again.” He tipped his head, then, leaning in to press his lips gently to the other’s pale neck. He felt more than heard him inhale. And there were hands in his coat, balled tightly in the material, drawing him nearer. This was how it should be, how it should always be. He wished they’d turn to stone locked together, like Eros and Psyche in the Louvre. Marius was his psyche; his soul. And Courfeyrac was all desire.

 

“Oh.” Marius said, as if something had just occurred to him. Some small, but profound revelation. Courfeyrac half expected a formal little ‘I see’ to follow. It didn’t, there was only silence.

 

Courfeyrac had taken care of the buttons on Marius’ shirt entirely, and once it was open he felt his skin. Smooth, but too cold. Marius was bones. Courfeyrac’s heart lurched. “I’ve allowed this to happen to you.” He said, mournfully. Marius had struck out determinedly alone, and Courfeyrac had allowed him to.

 

“I’m capable of making my own choices, you know. Especially poor ones.” Marius replied, tugging on Courfeyrac now. And he realised then where they were going. The bed. Marius reached it first and dragged Courfeyrac toppling down above him. Another of those wonderous boyish laughs left Marius, and Courfeyrac marvelled. One hand bracing himself, the other finding Marius’ cheek. It quieted him, which was not Courfeyrac’s intention at all.

 

“Has anyone ever kissed you, Marius?” He asked, his thumb brushing across his bottom lip.

 

“No, no they haven’t.” Marius replied stiffly, earning another of those fond looks.

 

“A travesty.” Courfeyrac told him. _Because I won’t be the one to do it._ And though he wanted to, his entire being burning with inextinguishable Greek fire, he resisted. He would let Marius keep it. Save it for _her_ whoever _she_ was. He leaned down to kiss his skin again instead, it would be _improper_ otherwise. As if this were somehow better, as if his need to claim Marius in other ways would be any purer. He looked at Marius once, how his shirt thrown open and bunched under his back made him look winged, and lovely.

 

He travelled down the other’s body, until he was no longer on the bed at all, but on his knees at it’s edge. He began working on the fastenings of Marius’ trousers, which were too large for him, and had a strange system of buttons he seemed to have sewn in himself to keep them on.

 

“Tell me no.” Courfeyrac looked up, found Marius on his elbows, looking over the edge at him, face flushed beautifully. As if he’d just finished a glass of wine. “I haven’t the strength to stop myself if you don’t.” They shouldn’t, he knew. It may spoil the good thing they had, the two of them.

 

“I can no more refuse you than you can stop.” Marius admitted. They remained there for a moment, eyes locked, and then Courfeyrac moved. He dragged the baggy material of Marius’ pants and underclothes down, letting them pool at his feet as he leaned forward to kiss. To touch. Just this once.

 

Marius wasn’t ready for him then, wasn’t hard, but it took so little to make him. Courfeyrac wet his lips, mouthed at his cock, fingers stroking the tender insides of his thighs. And Marius collapsed back on the bed, one knee thrown Over Courfeyrac’s shoulder, legs spread to make space for him between them. It was obscene, and far too much, he could only look down at Courfeyrac so long before a quiet moan would be wrenched from him. In the end, he pressed a hand to his mouth silence the sound, teeth digging into his knuckles.

 

Courfeyrac had done this before. As soon as Marius was half hard, he swallowed him. Mouth stretched over his cock, cheeks hollowed. He was so handsome, too handsome for this. To be on his knees, between Marius’ legs. And yet every time Marius looked down he found him there. Any physical sensation that came paled in comparison to the devastating warmth he felt knowing it was _him_.

 

“Please.” Marius gasped, clawing at the sheets, the indentations of his teeth still wet on his knuckles. He didn’t know what he was begging for, only that this must end, it couldn’t go on. He would burn alive if it did. He was already trembling, so near his end. Courfeyrac drew back, his lips already pink.

 

“Am I hurting you?” He asked. Marius shook his head no.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I've always loved this pairing, but have never had a reason to write them. I was inspired today, and this drabble came to me. I've been mulling over a multi-chapter fic but I probably shouldn't start another multi-chapter fic. 
> 
> Title inspired by L'Eternité by Arthur Rimbaud.
> 
> Any questions, find me at embastiller.tumblr.com!


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